There’s a picture in the current issue of Time magazine that made my heart sing. It’s of Barack Obama — Time's Man of the Year — cradling the good luck charms he carries in his pockets, many of them given to him by voters on the campaign trail.
Among them are a gambler’s chit, worn smooth by rubbing on both faces; the Hindu god Hanuman, who symbolizes strength, tenacity and loyalty; a Madonna, given to him by an elderly Hispanic woman; a medal depicting St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers; and a handmade silver Braille coin that reads “a little bit of luck.”
Another — a memorial bracelet given him by a woman who lost her older son in Iraq — he wears on his wrist.
It’s been nearly two months since we elected him president and I am still so taken by this man and what he stands for that I can barely contain my hope for what he will do for our country, our world, our planet and for each of us as human beings.
Though he has made a significant misstep in the past few weeks that hurt several of my friends terribly, I am able to see past it to the great good that is possible under his leadership. I am hopeful that the diversity of the symbols he calls on for guidance and inspiration — and, yes, luck — is a clear indication that each of us, regardless of who we are, where we live, whom we love, how we look, or what we aspire to will be included as he works to restore peace and stability to our our world and our lives.
To my friends who are hurting, please don’t give up hope. Though he made a terrible decision, I believe this man is our hope for a better future for every one of us.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
This woman’s story
Editor’s note: This post is my example of Not rape, as it’s defined in the post that precedes this one. If you you have your own example, I hope you’ll share it in the comments. If you don’t want to use your name or otherwise be identifiable, just comment as “anonymous.” Sharing your story gets it out of the shadows, for all the world to see. Maybe someday, none of us will be afraid anymore.
I was in ninth grade. He was one of my two best friends’ boyfriends. I never cared much for him. He seemed, well, beneath her.
They had one of those on-again, off-again things. Couldn’t be together. Couldn’t get away from each other, either. I always suspected he wasn’t very nice to her when they were alone. I don’t know why. Just a feeling, I guess.
It was a Saturday night, at the pizza parlor, one of the few places for kids to gather on our overseas military base. A big group of us were there, including him and her. They weren’t together. She was with someone else, I think.
Some of us had been drinking. I wasn’t among them.
As the night wore on, he got clingy, which made no sense because he didn’t like me any more than I liked him. I kept moving away. He kept finding me.
About half an hour before I had to leave, someone called my name from the yard beyond the place we‘d all been hanging out. I answered. He called again, from behind a tree.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
I walked closer.
Next thing I knew, he’d pulled me behind the tree, thrown me up against it and started to kiss me. I say “kiss me,” but that’s not really right. It was harsh and rough and not very kissy at all.
I tried to pull away. He pulled me closer, his tongue down my throat and his arm around my neck. The more I struggled, the tighter it got. I fought and fought. He never stopped kissing.
Next, he forced my hand to his crotch. He was hard. I got scared.
The kissing and crotch-rubbing went on for an eternity. I don’t know whether he ever got off, though I suspect he did. After submitting enough to get him to loosen his grip, I finally pulled away.
“Asshole,” I said, as I kicked him in the shin.
“Slut,” he said through his crooked teeth and sinister laugh.
I walked home by myself and went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep, of course. For weeks.
The next day, on the way to church, I ran into my other best friend and told her the story. I asked her not to tell anyone. You know how that story goes.
By Monday, his on-again, off-again had dumped me for making out with her boyfriend, he and his friends were taunting me in the halls and I had nowhere to turn.
My parents? Please. They’d have blamed me for being where I shouldn’t have been to begin with. And they’d never have let me go out with my friends again.
So I wandered through the maze of not-rape all by myself, avoiding my old friends, finding new ones and staying away from the Pizza Parlor.
I saw him again at a 2002 reunion of kids who once lived on our base. He said hello. I acted as though I didn't remember him.
“I dated J.,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
The more he tried to jog my memory, the more clueless I became. I wasn’t giving in to anything except, “I assaulted you behind a tree at the pizza parlor.”
He finally gave up. It felt good to watch him walk away confused and feeling dissed.
I see him often in pictures from that era. I know he’s still friends with some of the people who read this blog. I’m sure they’d find it hard to believe that he could do such a thing.
But he could. He can.
He did.
I was in ninth grade. He was one of my two best friends’ boyfriends. I never cared much for him. He seemed, well, beneath her.
They had one of those on-again, off-again things. Couldn’t be together. Couldn’t get away from each other, either. I always suspected he wasn’t very nice to her when they were alone. I don’t know why. Just a feeling, I guess.
It was a Saturday night, at the pizza parlor, one of the few places for kids to gather on our overseas military base. A big group of us were there, including him and her. They weren’t together. She was with someone else, I think.
Some of us had been drinking. I wasn’t among them.
As the night wore on, he got clingy, which made no sense because he didn’t like me any more than I liked him. I kept moving away. He kept finding me.
About half an hour before I had to leave, someone called my name from the yard beyond the place we‘d all been hanging out. I answered. He called again, from behind a tree.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
I walked closer.
Next thing I knew, he’d pulled me behind the tree, thrown me up against it and started to kiss me. I say “kiss me,” but that’s not really right. It was harsh and rough and not very kissy at all.
I tried to pull away. He pulled me closer, his tongue down my throat and his arm around my neck. The more I struggled, the tighter it got. I fought and fought. He never stopped kissing.
Next, he forced my hand to his crotch. He was hard. I got scared.
The kissing and crotch-rubbing went on for an eternity. I don’t know whether he ever got off, though I suspect he did. After submitting enough to get him to loosen his grip, I finally pulled away.
“Asshole,” I said, as I kicked him in the shin.
“Slut,” he said through his crooked teeth and sinister laugh.
I walked home by myself and went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep, of course. For weeks.
The next day, on the way to church, I ran into my other best friend and told her the story. I asked her not to tell anyone. You know how that story goes.
By Monday, his on-again, off-again had dumped me for making out with her boyfriend, he and his friends were taunting me in the halls and I had nowhere to turn.
My parents? Please. They’d have blamed me for being where I shouldn’t have been to begin with. And they’d never have let me go out with my friends again.
So I wandered through the maze of not-rape all by myself, avoiding my old friends, finding new ones and staying away from the Pizza Parlor.
I saw him again at a 2002 reunion of kids who once lived on our base. He said hello. I acted as though I didn't remember him.
“I dated J.,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
The more he tried to jog my memory, the more clueless I became. I wasn’t giving in to anything except, “I assaulted you behind a tree at the pizza parlor.”
He finally gave up. It felt good to watch him walk away confused and feeling dissed.
I see him often in pictures from that era. I know he’s still friends with some of the people who read this blog. I’m sure they’d find it hard to believe that he could do such a thing.
But he could. He can.
He did.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Every woman’s story?
I’ll have more to say on this topic when I’ve had some time to think about how to say it.
In the meantime, this is an amazing essay. It’s long. And worth every word.
Peace to you.
In the meantime, this is an amazing essay. It’s long. And worth every word.
Peace to you.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Dear, dear reader…
From our family to yours, Merry Everything...
Thanks for reading. And to all a good night.
Monday, December 22, 2008
And on the twelfth day of carols...
If I had a favorite, which I don't, this would be a contender.
08 - Christmas_ Sarajevo 12_24 (Instrumental).mp3
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
My grown-up Christmas list
Dear Santa,
I know it’s been a year since I’ve written, and that I never write or call unless I want something. But here I am again.
The good news is I don’t really need much this year. I have my family, my work, my health, good friends, good humor and the prospect of a happy 2009.
I have just two Christmas wishes this year, Santa. I sure hope you can help me out.
First, can you do something about those maudlin radio giveaway calls to families who desperately need help and shouldn’t have to prostrate themselves for advertising dollars in order to get it?
You know the calls I’m talking about. They sound something like this:
(ring, ring)
“Hey Sheila?”
“Yes?”
“This is Joe Blow, from Mix 100.1. How are you this holiday season?”
“Oh, we're getting by.”
“That’s why I’m calling. A little elf tells us you and your husband have both lost your jobs, your whole family’s come down with leprosy and you don’t have health insurance. Is that right?”
“It sure is.”
“And just last week, your house burned down and your kids don’t have any shoes to wear. Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And to top it off, your mom died and you don’t have the money to bury her, so she’s just sitting in the chaise on the patio?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Sheila, we’re gonna do something to help you out this year. We’re gonna bury your mom — ’cause you know, that's a health hazard. We’re also gonna send a couple of gift certificates for a holiday dinner and get a bike for each of the kids. How’s that sound?”
Sheila breaks down into the phone.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she says, as we all die a little inside.
Somewhere in the Good Book there’s a bit about giving-without-a-need-for-acknowledgment being the best sort of giving of all. Perhaps you could drop off a few of those books to the good folks in radio this year, Santa?
Next, could you take away the growing (and deafening) hate-talk over use of the phrase “Happy Holidays?”
Some people — who I guess think they’re the only people who matter — say they want everyone to wish them a Merry Christmas at Christmastime, even people who don’t know them. Apparently they think people — like store clerks and such — who wish them Happy Holidays instead are robbing them of something, though I'm not exactly sure what.
They also say they’re done worrying about what greeting to use with people they don’t know. They're just going to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, because, well, I'm not sure why, exactly.
I don’t know who told them they can’t wish everyone a “Merry Christmas.” They can, certainly, if they want to. Of course, wishing a Jew “Merry Christmas” is like wishing me Happy Birthday on June 12. It’s a nice gesture. But it doesn’t mean anything really, given that I was born in August.
And as for those sales clerks, well, I’d do the same thing if I were them. No need to risk offending a customer who doesn't celebrate Christmas when “Happy Holidays” covers all of your bases.
I don’t have to tell you, Santa, that there are at least three holidays between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and only one of them is Christmas. And while most of us celebrate Christmas, many of us don’t. That's why “Happy Holidays” can be such a good phrase, especially when you don’t know which holiday someone celebrates. It leaves no one out.
You don’t think their goal is to leave people out, do you, Santa?
Anyway. I'm just about ready for Christmas. Tree’s trimmed. Presents are wrapped. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
I hope you’re ready, too, Santa. It’s your big day. If you don’t have time to get to my wishes, I’ll understand. I know they’re big and complicated. But I figure if anyone can do it, you can.
Merry Christmas, Santa. And Happy Holidays, too.
love,
bzh
I know it’s been a year since I’ve written, and that I never write or call unless I want something. But here I am again.
The good news is I don’t really need much this year. I have my family, my work, my health, good friends, good humor and the prospect of a happy 2009.
I have just two Christmas wishes this year, Santa. I sure hope you can help me out.
First, can you do something about those maudlin radio giveaway calls to families who desperately need help and shouldn’t have to prostrate themselves for advertising dollars in order to get it?
You know the calls I’m talking about. They sound something like this:
(ring, ring)
“Hey Sheila?”
“Yes?”
“This is Joe Blow, from Mix 100.1. How are you this holiday season?”
“Oh, we're getting by.”
“That’s why I’m calling. A little elf tells us you and your husband have both lost your jobs, your whole family’s come down with leprosy and you don’t have health insurance. Is that right?”
“It sure is.”
“And just last week, your house burned down and your kids don’t have any shoes to wear. Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And to top it off, your mom died and you don’t have the money to bury her, so she’s just sitting in the chaise on the patio?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Sheila, we’re gonna do something to help you out this year. We’re gonna bury your mom — ’cause you know, that's a health hazard. We’re also gonna send a couple of gift certificates for a holiday dinner and get a bike for each of the kids. How’s that sound?”
Sheila breaks down into the phone.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she says, as we all die a little inside.
Somewhere in the Good Book there’s a bit about giving-without-a-need-for-acknowledgment being the best sort of giving of all. Perhaps you could drop off a few of those books to the good folks in radio this year, Santa?
Next, could you take away the growing (and deafening) hate-talk over use of the phrase “Happy Holidays?”
Some people — who I guess think they’re the only people who matter — say they want everyone to wish them a Merry Christmas at Christmastime, even people who don’t know them. Apparently they think people — like store clerks and such — who wish them Happy Holidays instead are robbing them of something, though I'm not exactly sure what.
They also say they’re done worrying about what greeting to use with people they don’t know. They're just going to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, because, well, I'm not sure why, exactly.
I don’t know who told them they can’t wish everyone a “Merry Christmas.” They can, certainly, if they want to. Of course, wishing a Jew “Merry Christmas” is like wishing me Happy Birthday on June 12. It’s a nice gesture. But it doesn’t mean anything really, given that I was born in August.
And as for those sales clerks, well, I’d do the same thing if I were them. No need to risk offending a customer who doesn't celebrate Christmas when “Happy Holidays” covers all of your bases.
I don’t have to tell you, Santa, that there are at least three holidays between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and only one of them is Christmas. And while most of us celebrate Christmas, many of us don’t. That's why “Happy Holidays” can be such a good phrase, especially when you don’t know which holiday someone celebrates. It leaves no one out.
You don’t think their goal is to leave people out, do you, Santa?
Anyway. I'm just about ready for Christmas. Tree’s trimmed. Presents are wrapped. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
I hope you’re ready, too, Santa. It’s your big day. If you don’t have time to get to my wishes, I’ll understand. I know they’re big and complicated. But I figure if anyone can do it, you can.
Merry Christmas, Santa. And Happy Holidays, too.
love,
bzh
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
We interrupt this singin’ and carryin’ on…
So here's a question: What the hell’s wrong with us?
By “us” I mean many of us women. Strong women. Smart women. Accomplished women. Sassy women. All of them descriptives I'd apply to the many women I know who read this blog. There are more of you that I don't know but wish I did — about 100, if the Internet gods are to be believed. I suspect you found your way here through one of the women to whom I’d apply those descriptives. And that right there is reason enough for me to want to know you.
(If you’re a man who reads this blog, thank you. I hope you’ll read this post, even though it doesn’t seem to have much to do with you. Well, except that it does, kind of. Especially if you’re in love with a woman.)
So back to us.
We are the strongest, sassiest, smartest, most accomplished group of women I’ve run across in long time. And yet, we have so little belief in ourselves that many of us won’t even express ourselves about things that matter to us in an environment filled with, well, more of us.
In the past week, I’ve had two conversations with regular readers — readers I consider to be awesome women.
One of them is tall and gorgeous, with red hair and a fire in her eyes you can't help but be drawn into. She's single and 48, and not particularly happy about it. She could sell you the flu. Her wit is sharp as a tack and her charm is unmatched in my experience. She's a tall drink of water, in every sense of the phrase.
The other is a beautiful wife and mother. She runs the carpool. She cuts the crusts off of PB&J sandwiches. She writes a blog that I love to read because I can hear her voice in my head as I do. She's so at home in the kitchen that watching her wander around it (and hers, by the way, is big enough to wander around in) is like watching an interpretative dance.
Both of these women have shared with me some amazing insights into life from their own perspective. Neither of them is a shrinking violet. Both of them are someone I'd want on my side in a trivia game, debate or street fight.
And yet, both have made this statement, or something like it, to me in the past week:
"I thought about posting a comment to that thing you wrote about [insert topic here], but after I wrote it I realized no one wants to hear what I have to say about that. So I deleted it.”
I’m so sad about what we’ve all missed because of their lack of belief in their ability to express themselves. The pearls of wisdom, or wit, or rage that were lost to the delete button... well, it’s just a shame. And you know, those are just the two that I know about. How many more “almost posts” have we lost? Were any of them yours, dear reader?
According to the Internet gods, between 100 and 150 of you read this blog regularly. About 5 percent of you have ever commented. I figure there’s a whole bunch of wisdom we all could have mined and used. Instead, you’re keeping it to yourself. And that seems a waste — for us and for you.
As a woman who stares down my lack of confidence every time I post, I ask you to join me out here on the skinny branches. Give yourself some credit and the rest of us the benefit of your experience and wisdom. Comment under your name or anonymously. I don’t care which. I just want to hear what you have to say.
We all do.
By “us” I mean many of us women. Strong women. Smart women. Accomplished women. Sassy women. All of them descriptives I'd apply to the many women I know who read this blog. There are more of you that I don't know but wish I did — about 100, if the Internet gods are to be believed. I suspect you found your way here through one of the women to whom I’d apply those descriptives. And that right there is reason enough for me to want to know you.
(If you’re a man who reads this blog, thank you. I hope you’ll read this post, even though it doesn’t seem to have much to do with you. Well, except that it does, kind of. Especially if you’re in love with a woman.)
So back to us.
We are the strongest, sassiest, smartest, most accomplished group of women I’ve run across in long time. And yet, we have so little belief in ourselves that many of us won’t even express ourselves about things that matter to us in an environment filled with, well, more of us.
In the past week, I’ve had two conversations with regular readers — readers I consider to be awesome women.
One of them is tall and gorgeous, with red hair and a fire in her eyes you can't help but be drawn into. She's single and 48, and not particularly happy about it. She could sell you the flu. Her wit is sharp as a tack and her charm is unmatched in my experience. She's a tall drink of water, in every sense of the phrase.
The other is a beautiful wife and mother. She runs the carpool. She cuts the crusts off of PB&J sandwiches. She writes a blog that I love to read because I can hear her voice in my head as I do. She's so at home in the kitchen that watching her wander around it (and hers, by the way, is big enough to wander around in) is like watching an interpretative dance.
Both of these women have shared with me some amazing insights into life from their own perspective. Neither of them is a shrinking violet. Both of them are someone I'd want on my side in a trivia game, debate or street fight.
And yet, both have made this statement, or something like it, to me in the past week:
"I thought about posting a comment to that thing you wrote about [insert topic here], but after I wrote it I realized no one wants to hear what I have to say about that. So I deleted it.”
I’m so sad about what we’ve all missed because of their lack of belief in their ability to express themselves. The pearls of wisdom, or wit, or rage that were lost to the delete button... well, it’s just a shame. And you know, those are just the two that I know about. How many more “almost posts” have we lost? Were any of them yours, dear reader?
According to the Internet gods, between 100 and 150 of you read this blog regularly. About 5 percent of you have ever commented. I figure there’s a whole bunch of wisdom we all could have mined and used. Instead, you’re keeping it to yourself. And that seems a waste — for us and for you.
As a woman who stares down my lack of confidence every time I post, I ask you to join me out here on the skinny branches. Give yourself some credit and the rest of us the benefit of your experience and wisdom. Comment under your name or anonymously. I don’t care which. I just want to hear what you have to say.
We all do.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Holly and jolly
Like most things in my life, my love of Christmas carols is cyclical.
On Thanksgiving Day, they fill me will warmth and joy and portend a month of happiness.
Early December, the berry's still on the holly, as it were. I sing in the car, sing to myself, play them on my computer all day long.
in mid-December, carols -- which at this point are ubiquitous to the point of stalking -- still stick in my head and bring me joy but for cryin' out loud, must I hear that awful "kid buying shoes for his dying mom" song ONE MORE TIME?
By Christmas Day, I'm fine with playing them while I cook dinner, but turn 'em down a bit, will ya?
By New Year's Day, I have resolved NEVER TO LISTEN TO ANOTHER FREAKING CHRISTMAS CAROL EVER, EVER AGAIN.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Thing is, if I could just listen to my favorite carols -- and my favorite versions of them -- I'd be golden. I could sing them year-round. But that isn't the way it works. Instead, that "little boy buying shoes for his dying mom" song plays 10 times as much as "Mary, Did You Know?" or the Pretenders version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."
And "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer?" Hell, I can't get away from that one, no matter where I go. Now, I'm not opposed to funny, made-up Christmas carols. I love, love, love "The 12 Pains of Christmas." And the Muppets' version of "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" makes me giggle every time.
But Grandma. I'm SO over you.
I've been working for days (DAYS, I tell you) to figure out how to embed my favorite versions of my favorite Christmas carols into this blog so you could enjoy one of them every day for the next 12 days. (Get it?)
I'm down to my last nerve but I think I've figured it out.
So here we go, in really no particular order. Because I love them all the same.
Merry everything, dear reader. May all your wishes come true...
You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch.mp3
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Funny things NOT written by me, Part 1
A Christmas Story for people having a bad day:
When four of Santa’s elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to feel the Pre-Christmas pressure.
Then Mrs Claus told Santa her Mother was coming to visit, which stressed him even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out heaven-knows-where.
Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered.
Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had drunk all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of it.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said very cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn’t this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?”
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.
(with snaps to cbj)
When four of Santa’s elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to feel the Pre-Christmas pressure.
Then Mrs Claus told Santa her Mother was coming to visit, which stressed him even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out heaven-knows-where.
Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered.
Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had drunk all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of it.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said very cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn’t this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?”
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.
(with snaps to cbj)
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
And she's buy-uy-ing a stairway to heaven…
Do you remember your first slow-dance?
Mine was in the summer between 7th and 8th grade. At a DYA dance, at Patch Barracks, in Stuttgart, Germany.
My partner: Ron Rush. And he was dreamy with a capital D.
I almost didn’t go to the dance. My dad was strict. “No 12-year-old belongs at a teen dance,” he’d said. (He was right, by the way, but that’s another story.) In a rare example of opposition, my mom disagreed and went to bat for me. In an even more rare example of, well, I don't know what, he compromised.
I could go to the dance, but I had to be home by 10:30 p.m.
I couldn’t get there fast enough. I was a new face on an overseas military base that saw one-third of its kids turn over each summer. We, the new crop, were fresh meat to those who’d been around awhile. I was eager to claim my prize.
As a newly selected cheerleader, I had reason to be hanging with the cute boys. Ron Rush, in my estimation, was the cutest of them all. A year older than I, boyish and sweet, with a bit of the devil in him.
Amazingly, about half-an-hour into the dance, I found myself sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HIM (omigod … omigod! … breathe …). Wasn’t long after that he started TALKING TO ME! (holy crap, holy crap, holy crap …)
I managed to answer his questions without tripping all over myself. We had a nice chat. Well, as nice a chat as you can have with dance music BLARING OVERHEAD.
And then, a slow song came on. I'd figured our time was up — that he’d head off to find a suitable partner — when he turned to me and said, “Would you like to dance?”
Oh. My. God.
Time stopped. We embraced.
I don't remember the rest of the dance. I floated home. By curfew.
The end.
Ron and I did not live happily ever after. We danced a few more times on a few more Saturday nights before he ended up with another girl and I ended up with another boy. And we were friends until it was our time to move back stateside.
I never really thought about Ron Rush again until he and I both attended a 2002 reunion of kids who’ve ever lived at Patch Barracks. I noticed him right away. And he remembered me. Over drinks with a bunch of the people who had traveled in our herd, I confessed to him my long-ago crush and told him he’d been my first.
He seemed genuinely bashful, and flattered.
The three-day reunion ended with a dance, much like those of our Saturday nights at Patch Barracks. I was catching up with another friend when the first slow song came on.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and …
(I’m sorry. I can’t make it any bigger. Click on the image to get the full effect.)
Mine was in the summer between 7th and 8th grade. At a DYA dance, at Patch Barracks, in Stuttgart, Germany.
My partner: Ron Rush. And he was dreamy with a capital D.
I almost didn’t go to the dance. My dad was strict. “No 12-year-old belongs at a teen dance,” he’d said. (He was right, by the way, but that’s another story.) In a rare example of opposition, my mom disagreed and went to bat for me. In an even more rare example of, well, I don't know what, he compromised.
I could go to the dance, but I had to be home by 10:30 p.m.
I couldn’t get there fast enough. I was a new face on an overseas military base that saw one-third of its kids turn over each summer. We, the new crop, were fresh meat to those who’d been around awhile. I was eager to claim my prize.
As a newly selected cheerleader, I had reason to be hanging with the cute boys. Ron Rush, in my estimation, was the cutest of them all. A year older than I, boyish and sweet, with a bit of the devil in him.
Amazingly, about half-an-hour into the dance, I found myself sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HIM (omigod … omigod! … breathe …). Wasn’t long after that he started TALKING TO ME! (holy crap, holy crap, holy crap …)
I managed to answer his questions without tripping all over myself. We had a nice chat. Well, as nice a chat as you can have with dance music BLARING OVERHEAD.
And then, a slow song came on. I'd figured our time was up — that he’d head off to find a suitable partner — when he turned to me and said, “Would you like to dance?”
Oh. My. God.
Time stopped. We embraced.
I don't remember the rest of the dance. I floated home. By curfew.
The end.
Ron and I did not live happily ever after. We danced a few more times on a few more Saturday nights before he ended up with another girl and I ended up with another boy. And we were friends until it was our time to move back stateside.
I never really thought about Ron Rush again until he and I both attended a 2002 reunion of kids who’ve ever lived at Patch Barracks. I noticed him right away. And he remembered me. Over drinks with a bunch of the people who had traveled in our herd, I confessed to him my long-ago crush and told him he’d been my first.
He seemed genuinely bashful, and flattered.
The three-day reunion ended with a dance, much like those of our Saturday nights at Patch Barracks. I was catching up with another friend when the first slow song came on.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and …
(I’m sorry. I can’t make it any bigger. Click on the image to get the full effect.)
Monday, December 1, 2008
With a nod to Proust
For me, one of life’s pleasures is “Inside the Actor's Studio.”
It’s a chance to wander a little deeper into the mind and motivations of my favorite celebrities — and a chance to watch James Lipton, a living caricature of himself who somehow makes it OK for me to fawn all over Brad Pitt and David Cook. The maudlin intro music and low production values make me feel like I’m sitting in the fifth row, and the audience questions make me feel like I’m back in high school theater, with a bunch of assholes whose pompousness makes me realize the stage will only ever be a hobby for me.
But my favorite, favorite part of each show is the questionnaire, which James Lipton has abbreviated and mistakenly credits to Marcel Proust and/or Bernard Pivot.
The original version is called the "Proust Questionnaire," though Proust only answered it. According to Wikipedia: "At the end of the nineteenth century, when Proust was still in his teens, he answered a questionnaire in an English-language Confession album belonging to his friend Antoinette, daughter of future President Felix Faure, entitled “An Album to Record Thoughts, Feelings, etc.” At that time, it was a fad among English families to answer such a list of questions that revealed the tastes and aspirations of the taker. Proust answered the questionnaire several times in his life, always with enthusiasm.
French TV host Bernard Pivot asked his guests to answer a Proust-like questionnaire at the end of each broadcast of "Apostrophes," an interview show which showcased writers of the times.
Lipton, like Pivot, has updated the questions. Vanity Fair has its own version. Here's what I've done to it.
If you won't answer these questions here in the comments, dear reader, I hope you'll at least think about them today. Questions like these are good to have answers to...
Peace to you.
************
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
What is your current state of mind?
On what occasion do you lie?
What is the quality you most like in a man?
What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Which living person do you most admire?
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
When and where were you happiest?
Which talent would you most like to have?
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
What is your most treasured possession?
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Who are your favorite writers?
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
With which historical figure do you most identify?
Who are your heroes in real life?
What is your greatest regret?
How would you like to die?
What is your motto?
What is your favorite word?
What is your least favorite word?
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
What turns you off?
What is your favorite curse word?
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
What profession would you not like to do?
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
It’s a chance to wander a little deeper into the mind and motivations of my favorite celebrities — and a chance to watch James Lipton, a living caricature of himself who somehow makes it OK for me to fawn all over Brad Pitt and David Cook. The maudlin intro music and low production values make me feel like I’m sitting in the fifth row, and the audience questions make me feel like I’m back in high school theater, with a bunch of assholes whose pompousness makes me realize the stage will only ever be a hobby for me.
But my favorite, favorite part of each show is the questionnaire, which James Lipton has abbreviated and mistakenly credits to Marcel Proust and/or Bernard Pivot.
The original version is called the "Proust Questionnaire," though Proust only answered it. According to Wikipedia: "At the end of the nineteenth century, when Proust was still in his teens, he answered a questionnaire in an English-language Confession album belonging to his friend Antoinette, daughter of future President Felix Faure, entitled “An Album to Record Thoughts, Feelings, etc.” At that time, it was a fad among English families to answer such a list of questions that revealed the tastes and aspirations of the taker. Proust answered the questionnaire several times in his life, always with enthusiasm.
French TV host Bernard Pivot asked his guests to answer a Proust-like questionnaire at the end of each broadcast of "Apostrophes," an interview show which showcased writers of the times.
Lipton, like Pivot, has updated the questions. Vanity Fair has its own version. Here's what I've done to it.
If you won't answer these questions here in the comments, dear reader, I hope you'll at least think about them today. Questions like these are good to have answers to...
Peace to you.
************
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
What is your current state of mind?
On what occasion do you lie?
What is the quality you most like in a man?
What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Which living person do you most admire?
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
When and where were you happiest?
Which talent would you most like to have?
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
What is your most treasured possession?
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Who are your favorite writers?
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
With which historical figure do you most identify?
Who are your heroes in real life?
What is your greatest regret?
How would you like to die?
What is your motto?
What is your favorite word?
What is your least favorite word?
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
What turns you off?
What is your favorite curse word?
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
What profession would you not like to do?
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
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